


Where Power resides

by LittleBrokenDoll



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Lance is a virgen, Multi, My First Work in This Fandom, Nimue is a good mother figure, Squirrel to the rescue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29158803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleBrokenDoll/pseuds/LittleBrokenDoll
Summary: Power is a curious thing; a dangerous thing.Nimue comes back from the Other World by the will of the Gods and a little help from the infamous Weeping Monk. As she recovers, her only desire is to return to her people. But how can she protect them without the Sword of Power?
Relationships: Arthur/Red Spear | Guinevere (Cursed), Nimue & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Nimue/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

The world was dark and red. As Nimue sank deeper into the water, the image of Iris came to her mind. Her small frame, her cold and furious dark eyes. Iris’s voice resonated through Nimue’s head, a long lost memory. _I have a way of spying demons. Do you know how? I just stare at them. I stare at them until I see through their faces to their real faces._ She wondered what Iris saw the first time she looked at her. Was it something so evil, so dangerous, that compelled her to come all the way from Yvoire Abbey just to kill her? Was it the same thing the people of her village saw? What Jonah feared to the point of leaving?

_It doesn’t matter now._

Nimue was sinking, her chest hurt from the arrows that had pierced it. She felt like her head was going to explode, her lungs screamed for air. She was agonising.

She opened her eyes and saw ribbons of crimson dancing above her and rays of light piercing through the water. It was beautiful and peaceful. Nimue didn’t think she’d have a peaceful death. She never thought much about death to be honest; not until the Red Paladins attacked her village. After that, she knew it was a matter of time. She’ll have been either slain or burned alive. But then the Sword of Power was in her hands and she wasn’t afraid of death anymore. She became the Wolf Blood Witch and she was the one doing the killing. To protect herself, to protect the Fey, to avenge her kind. For Justice.

_It doesn’t matter now._

Her people should already be sailing towards safety. It was cruel to make them leave behind everything they knew, but there was nothing but ashes to return to. At least they will live, their children will live and their children’s children. Nimue had been ready to sacrifice herself for that. For a future that she’ll not be a part of. Arthur had promised to keep them safe.

_Arthur…_ She wished she could have gone with him. They could have gone on adventures together once they had found a safe place for the Fey. They could have started a family later. She had always wanted children, not that anyone in her village would have ever taken her as a wife. But she had helped raise Squirrel, when his mother died. He was one of the only reasons she had stayed so long with her clan. He has the closest thing she would have ever had to a child of her own.

_It doesn’t matter now._

Squirrel was probably dead just like Gawain. She couldn’t save them just like she could not save her mother. _Mother…_ the last time she had spoken to her before the attack they had fought, because her mother wanted her to be something she was not, that she could not be. Nimue regretted it now. She shouldn’t have spoken to her mother like that. She shouldn’t have left the village. She should have stayed, maybe if she had her mother would be alive. _I failed her…_

Nimue thought of her father, Merlin. She could still feel the lingering pain his grip had left on her hand. He tried so hard to save her, he gripped her hand so hard. She saw the despair in his eyes as her hand began to slip away. She saw the fear and the pain. She saw herself, in the temple seeing her mother getting stabbed and being frozen in fear, unable to do anything. She didn’t want her father to feel as she felt, for he had tried, with all his might he had tried to hold onto her hand, to pull her up. But she’ll never be able to tell him that. To tell him that she knows he tried.

_It doesn’t matter now._

Gods! She felt like her head was going to burst. It was time to let go, but she was afraid of what awaited her on the other side. Were witches accepted in the Other World? Would Airimid even waste his breath to push a demon down the Great River? Would her ancestors accept her amongst them or would they shun her, like the rest of the Sky Folk did? Nimue didn’t know the answers to any of those questions. All she hoped for was to see her mother, even if she looked at her with disappointment, Nimue wanted to see her. She wanted her to know she had tried her best, she had tried to be a leader like her mother wanted. But at the end of the day, she was just a girl cursed by a Dark God.

With that thought in mind, Nimue let the water fill her lungs. And as darkness started to take her, she looked up at the light that pierced the water. So beautiful, she thought. And amongst the silence that surrounded her, she heard a familiar whisper in her head.

_Death is not the end, Fey Queen._


	2. Chapter 2

The sunlight peeked through the leafs of the tall trees as Lancelot guided Goliath through the irregular forest floor. His body ached from his fight with the Trinity Guard. He was sure some of his wounds were infected, yet he still tried his best to stay firm on his feet, holding the reins and reassuring the horse. Percival slept on top Goliath, his head rested against the horse’s neck, his body covered by Lancelot’s cloak.

After their escape, Lancelot had refused to stop for more than a couple of minutes, to relieve themselves and to let Goliath drink some water. They had spent an entire day and night riding. He wished to put as much distance between them and the religious army as possible, but that wasn’t the only reason. Lancelot could feel his body failing him. His wounds were severe and he had no resources or time to tend to them. He needed to find some Fey refugees to whom he could entrust Percival.

Some time during their second day of riding, Goliath started to show his displeasure at having to carry both their weights on him with no rest, getting agitated and refusing to move. Lancelot couldn’t blame him, if Percival was rather skinny and light, he was becoming quite literally dead weight. So he dismounted and began directing the great horse by the reins. They had long left the main road, choosing small trails surrounded by fields of wild tall grass. Once Lancelot spotted a large forest that seemed to be divided by a large river, he directed them towards it. Even if he couldn’t find any Fey hiding in it, they could at least rest for a bit, maybe even find something to eat and refill their water skin.

Lancelot could see a clearing between the trees up ahead. As they arrived, he noted that it was spacious enough for them to build a small fire and for Goliath to roam around quite freely. The earth was covered in green grass, which was ideal for the horse but not so much for him and the boy. Grass could be comfortable and pleasant when the sun bathed it all day, but deep within the forest it was humid. Either way, they couldn’t keep going. The sun was disappearing over the horizon and they hadn’t eaten anything in two days, apart from a couple of berries Percival had found in a bush.

Lancelot gently shook the boy’s shoulder. “Percival, wake up.” The boy groaned. He straightened himself while rubbing his eyes, wincing as he touched the right one that had a large bruise left by a Red Brother.

“Where are we?” He asked as he looked around.

“I’m not sure, but we will camp here for the night. Goliath needs to rest and so do we.” Lancelot sight, the pain on his ribs was killing him. Still he helped Percival get down from the great stallion. “Can you build a fire?”

“Of course I can build a fire!” The boy answered, offended at the question.

“Good. I’ll need you to do that while I take off Goliath’s saddle and bridle. I’ll try to find us something to eat.”

“I can set some snares!” Percival said excitedly, “I’m sure I’ll catch a rabbit! Maybe even two!” He puffed his chest proudly.

“I would rather you stay here. We don’t know what might be out there.” Lancelot said, as he took Goliath’s saddle, the weight of it making his arms ache. He was too tired to fight should the boy get himself in danger.

“Ugh!” Percival rolled his eyes, “You sound like a mother hen! You seem to have forgotten I saved your ass when those ugly guys with the stupid golden masks were beating the shit out of you!”

“Language!” Lancelot said sternly, “Besides, I don’t think throwing a rock makes you qualified to fight off bandits, palatines, bears and whatever else may be lurking in this forest.”

“I can take care of myself! I’ve lived in the middle of a forest my whole life, I know how to hunt and what berries aren’t poisonous. So you do what I say!”

Lancelot looked at the boy incredulously. _The gall of this kid…_ He thought to himself.

Percival continued “I will build a small fire and set some snares close by. Meanwhile, you go fetch water and wash yourself because you stink… Like seriously, you smell worse than pig shit! Those Red bastards don’t even need to follow Goliath’s tracks, they can probably find us just by following your stench!”

The boy was right, Lancelot reek like a corpse but that was no way of talking to an adult.

“I should rip your ear off for talking like that!”

“Go ahead! It wouldn’t make it any less true!” Percival crossed his arms and shrugged.

Lancelot sighed. He was in too much pain to keep fighting with this stubborn boy.

“Fine! We’ll do it your way. Just try not to get yourself killed...” He said as he took the bridle off and put a long rope loosely around Goliath’s neck, attaching it to a nearby tree. That should allow the horse some freedom without the risk of him wandering off.

He looked at Percival. The boy was already gathering some sticks and fallen branches for the fire. Lancelot took the water skin and started walking to the west. If his sense of orientation hadn’t failed him, the great river he had seen should be in this direction. Lancelot struggled a bit walking through the vegetation that covered the forest ground. Every inch of his body hurt, he could still taste the blood that filled his mouth when the flail hit his jaw. He was surprised the blow hadn’t broken it, even though he could still feel it aching. A sharp pain on his left side made him stop. He used a tree for support and took a deep breath. _I have to stay alive. I have to keep Percival safe until we find his people._ It was all he could do for the child. The Green Knight had made him see the flaws in his way of thinking but did that mean that he had been wrong about the Fey all along? Lancelot wasn’t sure. He always spared the children; he wanted them to have a chance to find God, to find redemption, like Father Carden had done for him. _But Father never spared the children…_

Lancelot shook his head. Now was no time to start questioning his beliefs. The wind whispered through the leaves. He listened closely. He could hear the birds, the leaves moving and, at last, water running. Lancelot pushed himself off the tree and slowly made his way towards the sound of the water. As he got closer to the river, the trees started to be more spaced between themselves. Finally, he reached the riverbed. The sun was sinking over the treeline. The river was dark, its current creating gentle waves on its surface. He took a deep breath, it was a peaceful sight. All around him the world was growing quiet and he could almost forget he was running away, with a child that he could barely take care of.

He filled the water skin before starting to undress. First came his belts and the empty scabbards, his swords having been forgotten during their hasty escape. As he pulled his tunic over his head he started to hear them… The whispers. Father Carden always told him they were the whispers of the Devil, attracted by his demonic nature. Prayer and self-flagellation would keep them at bay. But since the cleansing of Dewdenn, since finding the traces of the Wolf-Blood Witch, the whispers had become more frequent, louder even. He hated them, for they reminded him of his true nature, and yet, oftentimes, these same whispers guided him to where he needed to be. Lancelot tried to ignore them. He approached the water and started to wash his hands. Wind started to blow around him as he brought the water to his face. The whispers became louder and Lancelot rubbed his hands harder all over his face, trying to wash away the dried blood, trying to focus on anything other than the damn voices around him. The wind became stronger as did the voices, no longer whispers but a thousand voices, speaking different tongues. He couldn’t understand the languages they spoke. He looked up, leafs were flying around him and then started to move up the river, to his right.

_Help…_

Lancelot turned around, startled, but found no one. It was the first time he understood the whispers.

_… needs you…_

_Help her!_

Lancelot was shocked, confused. The wind became stronger pushing him forward. Whatever was happening it must be linked to his fey nature. His mind told him to fight back, to shut them down like Father Carden had taught him, but his instinct, every fibre of his body, told him to follow the voices. I’m already damned… he thought to himself as he started to walk, letting the wind guide him. It was taking him up the river, towards an agglomeration of rocks and a small fallen tree.

_There…_

_She’s there…_

He frowned. _She? Who’s She?_ The wind had stopped as he reached the fallen tree. He looked at it then towards the woods. There’s no one here. But as he turned to go back to where he had left his belongings he saw it. A pale hand. He looked closer. Between the branches of the dead tree laid a body, dressed in leather and blue. Before he even realised it, Lancelot was in the water, one hand on the dead tree trunk to support himself. The body laid face down, stuck between the branches. He grabbed at the blue fabric and tugged. The body moved slightly but remained in place. He moved closer, the cold water reaching his chest. It was the body of a woman, dressed with a long blue tunic and what seemed to be a leather corset, her long dark hair moving with the river’s current. He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her with him. The movement freed the body and Lancelot was able to turn it over. Leaf-like marks covered her cheeks and temples. The young woman in his arms was a fey, a demon like him, and yet he couldn’t help but think she was beautiful; and should have been even more so when life coloured her cheeks. Now her skin was sickly white, her brownish golden markings a striking contrast against it, her lips were blue, her eyelids purple and two broken arrow shafts were lodged in her chest. Lancelot had seen plenty of dead bodies during his time with Father Carden and the Red Paladins, many of whom had died by his own hands. However, the sight of this fey girl shook something in his core. It made his stomach turn.

He pulled her closer to his chest and started to move to the shore. As the water became more shallow, his body started to protest against this new weight he carried. Lancelot clenched his jaw in response to the pain. As he reached the shore he fell on his knees, still cradling the body in his arms, and laid it gently on the ground. For a moment he just looked at the dead girl’s face. Sorrow filled his chest. _She must have died at least two days ago. There’s nothing I can do for her…_ Tears fell from his eyes but he didn’t know why. This young woman was nothing to him. He had never seen her before, never spoke to her, but it fell wrong to see her like this. He shuddered as the whispers returned. Once more he couldn’t make out what they were saying, not that it mattered. Demonic or not, these voices had asked him to save a girl who was long dead. Whatever abilities his demonic nature had granted him, bringing people from the dead was certainly not one of them. Lancelot caressed her cold cheek, moving away some strains of hair. He traced the marks that adorned her skin. He had killed so many Feys, with no regret or remorse, but looking at this fey girl awakened something in him. He felt hopeless, an emptiness in his chest he didn’t understand.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.” He whispered to the dead girl, a tear falling on her cheek.

_Help her…_ He heard one of the voices say.

“I can’t…” He answered. The whispers became louder, different voices all speaking at the same time.

_Help her…_

_Help her!_

_… destiny…_

_Save them!_

“Stop! Stop it! I can’t help her! I can’t help anyone!” He screamed into the air. He was losing his mind. The voices became relentless, and the emptiness he felt, the guilt, the sorrow were overwhelming him. A thousand dead faces passed through his mind, a thousand burning villages, a thousand cries, a thousand screams…

Then a long lost memory came to him. A few years before, a Red Brother fell into the river. He was no more than fourteen summers and having lived in a city all his life, he had never learned how to swim. It was Brother Angus, a boarded shoulder large man, who saved the lad. Before Brother Angus found God he had been a smuggler, but one day his small boat was caught in a storm and thrown against the rocks. His companions drowned and as he held onto one of the rocks for dear life a vision of the Virgin Mary appeared before him, telling to pray and as he did so the storm cleared and a merchant ship rescued him. From then on he dedicated his life to the Lord. Once Brother Angus had dragged the boy to shore, he started to contract the boy’s chest with his hands before breathing air into the boy’s mouth from time to time. Soon the young Brother was throwing up water and breathing once again.

Lancelot looked at the girl before him, the wind turning around him, the voices deafening. It wouldn’t work, yet it couldn’t hurt to try. He did his best to remember the movements Brother Angus had used. He laid one hand over the other, stretched his arms and straightened his aching shoulders. He started pushing against her chest but he couldn’t remember how many times Brother Angus had done it before breathing into the boy’s mouth. He decided to push thirty times against her chest before giving her his breath. When the time came, Lancelot filled his lungs with air before opening the girl’s mouth slightly and covering it with his own. He repeated the action three more times to no avail, as was expected. _Please, if you guided me to her let it be for something. Help me bring her back._

He continued his efforts, massaging her chest. The wind twirling around him became warmer. The voices no longer screamed in despair but sang. He felt the markings under his eyes becoming warm. He joined his mouth to hers one more time, emptying all the air in his lungs so that it could fill hers.

The dead girl's body arched. Her eyes flew open, water spilled from her mouth and nose before it started choking her. Instantly, Lancelot turned her on her side so she could cough out all the water in her lungs. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The girl had been dead only moments ago, he could still feel the coldness of her lips on his. _It’s a miracle._

The coughing was replaced by deep shaking breaths. She tried to get on her elbows, her body shaking and her wet hair falling over her face. Lancelot observes her for a moment, too stunned to move. Seeing her struggle to sit up, he finally snapped out of his shock induced trace and helped her, grabbing her by the shoulders so that she could sit. As she settles, she looks up at him. Deep blue eyes look into his own and Lancelot gets lost in them for a moment. A look of confusion marks the girl's features as she stares at him, her dark wet hair glued to her cheeks, a strand stuck between her lips. It was as if time had frozen, leaving only the two of them.

Confusion gave away to panic, and the young woman started to push against him, in an effort to get away from him. Panicked breaths coming out of her as wheezing sounds. Balled fists hitting Lancelot’s bruised torso, making him wince. He tried to keep a hold on her arms, to stop her from hitting him and hurting herself even further.

“Please, stop! I’m not going to hurt you.” He tried to sound calm and reassuring, but the pain made him sound frustrated. He understood her panic. She probably reconnaised him, either from his reputation or from the purging of her village. But he sincerely did not mean her any harm, not after what had just happened.

Despise his best efforts, the young woman in his hold continued to trash around, her breaths becoming ragged. Sudenelly, her mouvements became weaker. Lancelot watched as her eyes rolled to the back of her head and her body became limp once more. He pulled her to his chest, checking her pulse. He sight. She was still alive. For a short moment he looked at the girl in his arms before a single thought crossed his mind: _What in God’s name am I going to do with you?_

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everybody!!! Thank you for reading. This is my very first fanfic so if you have any advise don't hesitate.
> 
> P.S.: English isn't my first language.


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